


with the sun in our eyes

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Chance Meetings, Fluff, Hitchhiking, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Martino Rametta, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Picking someone up off the side of the road probably has a higher chance of murder than it does of falling in love. Maybe Martino just got lucky.





	with the sun in our eyes

**Author's Note:**

> bee had a hitchhiker au and i had a road trip au and we mashed them together, so here you go haha.  
> enjoy 💛

Three hours into the drive and Marti already doesn’t know if it’s worth it.

The car, that is. 

His dad asked him to pick it up and drive it home from Paris — a gift from his late friend left in a will. (Nevermind the fact Marti and his dad haven’t spoken to each other in over a year. Maybe that’s why he offered it to him as payment for the favor. _A graduation present,_ he said. It took everything for Marti not to scoff.)

It’s a bit old — vintage or collectors or something. The engine hums and kicks like a dying, palpitating heart. The seats don’t adjust. The sunroof has lost its cover, providing no relief from the daylight through the hot pane of glass. The breaks are old and the gears are sticky. 

At least he thinks so. Marti doesn’t know anything about cars. Maybe there’s sentimental value to it because his naivety would tell him it belongs in the scrap yard. 

But it drives. And to him, it’s free. 

Too bad there’s still eleven hours to go; he hasn’t even made it to Switzerland yet.

And he’s already tired of the radio; already unimpressed with the scenery; already eaten all of the snacks he bought on his first gas up — so now he’s resorted to trying to pronounce the French road signs. 

(He doesn’t know French in the slightest.)

He’s just… bored. And not only in the car.

Seeing all of his friends on insta travel and find jobs and move abroad after graduation isn’t helping. Elia’s snorkeling in Spain and Gio’s interning in Denmark and they’re all taking pictures with people Marti has never seen before. He doesn’t want to admit the green twisting his insides is a root of envy. He doesn’t like it and doesn’t feel it often. But it digs into the dirt of his stomach. 

Especially when he remembers it’s a Friday summer morning and he’s running an errand for his _dad_ of all people.

At least on a train he could sleep. Or read. But all he has here are long stretches of road that demand his attention. Passing trailer trucks and swerving around potholes. He can’t daydream because that will just remind him he’s lonely, remind him of his friends who don’t have to. 

So he just continues to read the road signs in made up French. The best distraction he’s got.

He’s in the countryside now, far past Paris. Cows eating breakfast dot the farmland. Hills that want to be mountains roll in the distance, but the highway is straight and flat between them. Barren, too. It’s so early, not even the morning commute has started. He wants to get this all done in a day, hopefully arriving in Rome by sunset. 

As he travels slightly east, the sun just rising makes him squint. He’s been following the same red Fiat going five under the speed limit for twenty minutes now, tempted to pass them on the opposite side. 

Marti sighs frustrated and sharp through his nose, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles as they slow down even more. He leans back into his seat, glancing in the left side mirror to see if he has a shot at passing them.

Until he realizes why they’ve slowed down.

Up ahead, on the right shoulder of the road, someone is walking. Slowly. A backpack slung over their shoulders. Weird, but whatever. Marti follows the Fiat closer and checks the rearview just as he passes — foot on the gas ready to speed up again.

But before he peels his eyes away from the mirror he sees them trip, a cartoonish dirt cloud puffing up where they fall. 

Fuck.

Marti hits the breaks, pulls over. Jams the car into reverse and backs up on the shoulder until the stranger on the side of the road starts to get up. When he gets out of the car, hesitantly — one foot still inside — he’s peeking over the roof of it. Defenses up. 

“Are you okay?” Marti has to almost yell it for him to hear through the distance. And he yells it in Italian with that stupid French accent he’s been practicing, which makes him smash his eyes closed and wrinkle his nose in embarrassment. He has to stop his reflexes from banging his forehead on the hot metal. 

The guy jimmies his shoulder and rubs his elbow, dusting the dirt and grass from his t-shirt. His sleeves are rolled up under the straps of his backpack — which is lopsided behind him — showing off an impressive farmer’s tan. His hair is a mess. His shoes look like they’ve seen better days.

“No. Not really.”

Obviously. But the honesty surprises Marti.

“Oh.” Marti swallows his tongue. 

_Offer to help, you’ve already pulled over_ his brain aimlessly supplies, despite everything he’s ever learned about picking someone up off the side of the road. For all he knows, this guy is a prison escapee. A serial killer.

(Or maybe someone just down on his luck.)

Being a caretaker is one of Marti’s strengths, but right now it feels like a weakness — and the more Marti lets it veto all of the scenarios that end with him dead in a ditch the more his cortisol tingles through his veins. 

Weird: he kind of likes it. Hasn’t felt it in a while.

“Can I… help? Where are you going?” Marti doesn’t regret the words as soon as they leave his mouth, per se, but he might be silently praying this stranger doesn’t have a knife in that backpack and this might be the last day of his life with his skin on his face. 

He starts walking closer, laughing, which again surprises Marti. Laughs with his eyes, too, like he’s not downtrodden — although his appearance might tell you otherwise. 

“Probably not. I’m trying to get to Rome.”

Marti’s impulses are against his logic: the corner of his lip tips up. He rests his chin atop his folded hands settled on the roof of the car, smiling. 

“Long way to walk. You’re lucky that’s where I’m headed.” He tilts his head when he says it. Blinks a second longer than normal and raises his eyebrows. Quip and harmless. 

For some reason, his heart is beating faster. Probably at the rush of uncertainty, which is usually a situation he doesn’t put himself into. But his conscience won’t 1) let him go on knowing someone had taken a bad fall right past him and 2) not let him offer any help. 

And maybe the prospect of the next eleven hours in the car alone is enough to drive him mad. 

(And maybe that smile Marti saw in his eyes is trust enough.)

(And maybe he’s craving a bit of an adventure.)

“C’mon.” Marti pats the metal roof, which gives a tinny clang, and slides back down into his seat, reaching over to open the passenger side door from within. “Get in.”

The stranger lets the strap of his backpack fall off his shoulder and into the crook of his elbow, his whole body tugging to the side with the weight of it. Level with him, it’s almost as big as he is. And getting closer, Marti realizes how small he actually is. 

He stays outside of the open door, though, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

Marti nods. “I usually don’t do this kind of thing. You should get in before I change my mind.” He’s not serious, though. He hopes the way he says it conveys that.

It must. “And I usually don’t accept this kind of thing,” he retorts, brushing the hair on his forehead back. “But you’ve, uh —” he gestures to himself: his tangled curls and his dirty clothes and his worn down soles “— you’ve caught me in a desperate moment.”

The exhaust radiating off of him must amplify his smile — so big it almost glitters. Given the current situation, it’s almost impossible to tell if it’s genuine or if he’s hiding behind it.

He gets in, the car dipping with his weight to even out again. His backpack is in his lap before he decides it’s too big to rest there, throwing it over the headrest with a thump into the back seat. Marti watches him buckle up, pat his knees with his palms impatiently. Up close, his cheeks are sunburnt. His hair is wild — all over the place. His jeans need washing and there’s no way he could have lasted another mile in those shoes. 

But this doesn’t look like a familiar state to him. Marti watches him adjust his sleeves, tame his stray hairs, try to shrink. He knows he’s in bad shape, and he cares. 

Marti feels for him: an unversed vagabond. That’s what he just picked up.

He stops staring. He’ll ask later. Marti shifts the car back into drive and signals onto the road, picking up speed before putting it into cruise.

“I’m Marti, by the way,” he offers after some silence. He keeps his attention straight ahead but glances over with an offered hand.

Taken quickly with a shake. Dry and calloused but warm and friendly. His face splits into another blinding smile. Marti can tell from his peripherals. 

“Nico.”

He then proceeds to thank Marti a million times.

  
  


• • •

  
  


It takes ten minutes for Nico to fall asleep.

Which is fine by Marti, who doesn’t know what to say anyway now that the adrenaline has worn down. He turns the radio low when Nico starts to snore, glancing over to see his closed eyes and parted mouth, neck bent and face leaned toward him. The kicks of the car whenever it finds uneven pavement bounce his frizzy black curls. 

It all brings a smile out of Marti — and he’s not sure why — but he takes it as a good sign for his safety. Maybe he shouldn’t let his guard down, but he thinks he’s doing the right thing.

He usually trusts his gut. Which isn’t warning him, but it’s definitely stirring. Something Marti hasn’t felt in a long time. Something he’s forgotten — something he can’t compare it to.

A rather violent bump makes Marti jerk the steering wheel from shock, snapping him back to attention. A pothole, maybe. Or a rock. These last few miles have flown by with Marti on autopilot at best. A quick look at the dashboard clock tells him several hours have passed.

But the front wheel on his side scrapes, the car sags forward. And, in the rearview, he sees the shreds of his blown tire.

Fuck.

He pulls over; Nico is awake now, eyes trying to be wide but ringed shiny red like he was in the deepest stage of sleep. He glances out the window with a disoriented brow crinkle, then back to Marti like he doesn’t quite remember who he is.

The car comes to a stop.

“I think we popped a tire,” Marti admits. Composed at first, but reality catches up to him and he knows he’s having a hard time masking the worry on his face. He’s been so distracted by whirring thoughts and Nico’s snores he couldn’t even tell you if they’re still in France or not.

Nico shakes his head as if to kickstart his sleepy brain. “Hey,” he calms him — voice a little scratchy. Marti feels a hand on his shoulder, then a squeeze. “Do you have a spare?”

He has no idea. “Maybe in the trunk?”

“Pop it,” Nico nods, opening the passenger door. “I’ll go check.”

Marti does, and a minute later Nico in the rearview is slapping the hood of it shut with the spare over his shoulder, a thumbs up, and a grin. 

Relieved, Marti sighs and loosens his grip on the steering wheel — which he didn’t even realize he was clutching. He cracks his knuckles before opening the door to go out and join Nico.

Five cars pass them. None stop. Marti wonders how many cars passed Nico.

“Sit here.” Nico pats the pavement next to him where he’s kneeling with the spare leaned up against the back door and a jack and a wrench under his arm. They must have been in the trunk too. Marti wouldn’t even begin to know how to use them. “I’ll need your help.”

Marti complies, shifting nervously while he crosses his legs. “I’ve never had to do this before,” he confesses. But with an air of comfort, because it seems like Nico has.

And he’s right.

“Well,” Nico looks over at him, jacking the back of the car up and starting to unscrew the first bolts of the hubcap, scraps of rubber from the blown tire still holding on somehow. “You’re _lucky_ I know how,” he mocks Marti from earlier.

And that makes Marti laugh.

Maybe they both are. 

Lucky, that is.

“Hold these,” Nico waves his hands for Marti to extend his own, dropping the bolts in his palm. Marti makes note of the tickle when their fingers touch.

It’s quick work for Nico — Marti is handing them back one by one just a few minutes later so Nico can reattach them to the hubcap over the new tire. 

With his head leaned back against the car, Marti watches him finish up: watches him keep pushing his hair out of his eyes, watches the tan line on his arm peek below his sleeve, watches his tongue dart between his teeth as he bites it in concentration.

Marti bites his own to keep himself from asking why he was all alone. Still too early. 

“Guess we’re even.” Marti raises his eyebrows when he stands, Nico pulling the jack from under the car situated on its new wheel. Only after he’s said it does the subtext become clear: _thank god you were here to help me._ His cheeks get hot and he doesn’t know why.

Nico exhales sharply through pursed lips, blowing a curl off his forehead while his shoulders bounce in a questioning laugh. “Not even close,” he hums. “C’mon, let’s see if I did it right.” He knocks on the trunk when he rounds the back, almost skipping. 

They get back in the car. Marti shifts it carefully, picking up speed slower than normal to test the tire. It seems fine, and once they’ve traveled a few minutes back on the road he sees Nico smile — biting it down, even — from the corner of his eye. Like he’s proud.

“Listen,” Nico starts. “I hate to ask this. But do you have any water?”

Marti’s heart sinks into his stomach, the acid of it a cruel kick back up to his head reminding him he didn’t even think to offer any. It starts stinging when he visualizes Nico had miles and miles to go before he could get any if Marti hadn’t stopped.

Frantically, Marti pulls the bottle he had from the cup holder up only to see dregs. “I did,” he admits, feeling selfish. Which is dumb, but he didn’t know. “We can stop, yeah?”

“Only if it’s not a problem —”

Marti cuts him off, eyes still on the road but a smile on his face. “I’m hungry anyway.”

He’s not. But Nico probably is.

  
  


• • •

  
  


He would have offered to pay for his food, too, but by the time they’ve pulled over to a gas station on the outskirts of some small town a few miles off the main highway, Nico’s already at the checkout literally counting his change. Marti catches him just as he walks in from pumping gas.

He sneaks by unnoticed, going through the shallow aisles back towards the coolers to grab more water and a few other drinks. Up through the aisles again, this time with the intention to grab snacks — so many he can’t carry anymore. He steps in line behind Nico. 

“Sorry, I think you’re short a euro.” The cashier crinkles his eyebrows at the handful of change Nico’s handed over. 

Hecticly, Nico pats his pockets and retrieves his wallet. When he opens it, a few euro cents fly out and click on the dirty tile. 

“Fuck. Uh,” Nico stumbles. When he turns around to pick up the change, he catches Marti’s eye, cheeks going pink. “It’s fine. Just the water is fine.” He waves, scrambling the coins back into his pockets.

The cashier, who looks like he’s used to this kind of thing, scoots the discarded snack to the side and rings up the water. 

Nico scurries out the front door to the car, pointedly not looking at Marti. 

It makes his stomach twist. How was he supposed to get to Rome in one piece with only enough money for one water?

“I’ll get it,” Marti nods towards the rejected snack: some cheese crackers. He splays the junk food across the counter, their packages crinkling. So many the cashier asks Marti if he wants a bag.

Which he promptly flings into Nico’s lap back in the car, the weight of it surprising him. Marti watches his eyes go wide.

He can’t help but notice the water Nico bought is already almost gone.

“Help yourself,” Marti mentions, reversing the car out of their parked spot by the fuel stand and trying not to sound patronizing. “Will you open something for me? Also, that blue thing in there is for you.” He gestures vaguely towards all the snacks. “The energy drink thing. Electrolytes and whatever, I think they’re good for you.”

_I think you need to hydrate._

Nico’s face softens in Marti’s peripherals. He starts rifling through the bag, chuckling. Low and warm and the sound of it catches Marti off guard, chipping away at his casualness.

Especially because if the roles were reversed, Marti knows he’d have a hard time shucking away the bitterness. But no, Nico is still — somehow — gracious and lively.

“What do you want? Looks like you got one of everything.”

Marti makes a thinking noise. “I don’t care,” he decides. “Pick for me.”

If he had a better look at Nico’s face, he might describe the smile that stretches over it almost devilish. It doesn’t make him nervous, though.

A few crimps of plastic, rips of foil. And next thing Marti knows, a cheese cracker dipped in Nutella is being held under his nose.

He recoils from the smell alone — pungent and buttery and sugary and nutty — dramatizing the scrunch of his face. “Excuse me?”

Nico laughs, holding it closer — almost feeding it to him. “I swear, it’s delicious. My favorite.”

Marti takes a second to turn his head and narrow his eyes at him, focus back on the road once he knows Nico’s read his incredulous expression. “I don’t believe you.” He only half means it. It sounds skeptical but the smile gives him away.

Nico shrugs his shoulders. “Suit yourself.” And then he shoves the cracker into his own mouth, an over-animated sound of pleasure starting from his chest like he’s just eaten a delicacy. He moves to dip another cracker. “I mean, it’s _so_ good,” he drags out, almost taunting.

“Fine,” Marti huffs, rolling his eyes. None of it demeaning, though. He’s still smiling — or, maybe trying not to but failing. “Give me one.” He holds out his left hand, crossing over his body.

Nico bounces his shoulders in some sort of weird victory dance and dips another cracker into the Nutella, shoving Marti’s open hand away with his free one. “You’ll get all messy,” he explains. “Here.” He holds it under Marti’s nose again.

Marti snorts, disbelieving. “You’re going to feed it to me?”

“Yes,” Nico responds — serious without missing a beat. “It’s the least I could do.” He bats his eyes and tips his head, a curl falling into his face.

“Oh my god,” Marti laughs. “Fine.” He opens his mouth and Nico sort of throws it in there, covering Marti’s lips with his palm for a second to make sure he doesn’t spit it out.

Marti chews, trying not to make a face because Nico is looking at him with hopeful eyes. But in reality, it’s horrific.

“It’s good, right?”

“It’s not bad,” Marti lies, swallowing thickly and unabashedly grabbing the blue energy drink from Nico’s lap, opening it and taking a swig to wash away the sickly tangy-chocolate flavor. It doesn’t really make it better, though. It just adds a sweet fruit-candy taste to the mix. He shakes his head and smacks his tongue, unable to hide his disgust anymore.

Nico starts laughing. Big — with his belly and his shoulders and a wiggle of his head. He leans back in the seat and turns to Marti, eyes almost shut his cheeks are so high. The laugh lines around his temples and mouth deepen. Marti doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anyone look so genuine, despite outing themselves of their own prank.

“Fuck you,” Marti huffs, wiping his mouth to reveal a smirk. He grips the steering wheel tighter, unsure of what to do with his hands that want to reach out and touch Nico — playfully smack his cheek or punch his shoulder. “I admit it, okay, you got me.”

Nico, calming down, raises his brows up into the curls on his forehead. A satisfied smile underneath wide eyes. He caps the Nutella and dips his hand into the bag for a plain cracker. “Thank you, by the way,” he mentions, face sombering. He offers it over to Marti, who shakes his head. “Oh — !”

Marti sees Nico lean up, hand stretching for the knob on the radio. He turns it up until the weak bass from the old car stereo shakes the frame. He realizes the familiar beat is thumping slower than his heart.

And to his surprise, Nico starts belting: _“La gente aspetta i miracoli. A braccia aperte, sì, come i tentacoli. Spera che risolva tutto il Signore. Ma non è così. No no, no no. Questi finti sorrisi mi mandano in crisi, oh oh, oh oh —” _with food still in his mouth and shimmying shoulders and animated hands, crooking his neck back and forth until he’s singing right at Marti.__

“Really?” Marti has to ask loudly over it. “Calipso?”

“See,” Nico pauses his singing to say, continuing to dance. “You know it too.”

He does. Not like Nico does, but he wouldn’t admit it even if he did. Marti rolls his eyes before stealing another glance at him dancing through his peripherals, not wanting to accept he might be a bit enamored at the way Nico rolls his wrists, dips his shoulder, bobs his head. Belts out loud in a tone that’s deeper than his speaking voice — and he’s actually not bad. Marti would even say he’s good.

“C’mon, you at least know the _la la la’s,”_ Nico nods, grabbing his energy drink and holding it to Marti’s face like a microphone, the last chorus soon approaching.

Marti gives in — part laughing part singing part mumbling into the cap of the bottle: _“Ora ricorda dov'è il tuo cuore ... la la la, la la, la la.”_ He emphasizes the last _la_ with an open mouth, a heavy tongue, like: _fine, here._

“There we go,” Nico smiles, bringing the bottle back to his own mouth, and Marti actually sings the last _ora ricorda dov'è il tuo cuore_ with him.

When the song ends, there’s a second of silence before the radio personality starts going off about winning tickets, and Nico turns the volume almost all the way down as if to not ruin the mood.

And that’s when Marti realizes he’s getting ahead of himself, as if there’s any mood at all.

“Sorry,” Nico mutters. Not soberly, though. Marti sees him glance up at his profile, biting his bottom lip. His cheeks might be pink; he pushes his hair out of his face and yeah, they are. “Sorry,” he repeats, shaking his head and smiling. Maybe as an embarrassed, nervous reaction.

“For?” Marti presses, tipping his chin down, eyebrow up. He knows what _for,_ but in his opinion, it needs no apology. He breaks focus on the road to look over at Nico, and they meet eyes for the first time in a while.

Marti wishes his heart didn’t stutter. He’ll blame it on the junk food. All that sugar and salt.

“You’ve just put me in a really good mood,” Nico admits.

Marti has to look back at the road. But maybe his smile is better camouflaged when it’s not head on. It’s so big and content and bitten-down he’s afraid he might give himself away.

Ahead of himself again: give what away?

Nico takes a pause before continuing, the first word almost swallowed. “It’s been a rough couple of days. You’re like my savior, I swear.”

He almost asks. But Marti bites his tongue again, still feeling like this isn’t the right moment. Wondering if he should even ask at all, or if Nico will eventually tell him.

And he’s not quite sure what to say to that, so Marti just peeks over at Nico and recycles his smile. Smaller, this time, like the size of it before bled into the rest of his face to make it all soft: it’s in his eyes now, his chin. Marti swears he can even feel it in his nose, this smile. It’s slight but no less intense. It says _don’t worry about it, I’m more glad you’re here than you know._

It’s the first time he’s realizing that. 

Nico returns it with sparkling eyes.

A glance down at the clock says it’s past noon now. The tire set them back a little, but they’ve got about seven more hours on the road as they inch toward Milan.

The last five have flown by faster than Marti expected and, now realizing, wanted.

Up ahead he knows to go left — through the city towards Bologna so they have a flatter route south. 

Right will get them there, too. Will just set back the timeline a few hours through the mountains.

And if those few hours are anything like the last five, they’re precious.

He looks at the clock again. At Nico, who’s still smiling but staring out the window now. In the rearview, at all that road behind them and through the windshield, at all the road still left.

Marti goes right.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Marti knew this way was through the mountains.

Maybe he just forgot what a mountain was.

Luckily Nico is asleep again because he’s cruising at half the speed limit making hairpin turns on sharp grades, winding through a forest. There’s no rail on one side, and all it would take is a squirrel darting into the middle of the road and a knee-jerk swerve for them to go toppling down the mountain.

It’s high-stress driving. But Nico’s little snores make it worth it. At the top, he can see the ocean, too.

Marti almost wants to wake him up for it. Almost.

He won’t let himself steal a glimpse on these roads, but just the warmth of Nico beside him on this journey is enough to keep him content. 

The sound of his breathing humming with the car. A snore here or there.

The boredom that was flicking through Marti’s veins is eased now, and he doesn’t quite know why. Especially since Nico is asleep.

...Well, he knows why. But he doesn’t really want to admit it yet. Marti’s feeling everything so fast it might as well be blamed on a head rush, like something for that boredom to fixate on.

But he doesn’t think so. Marti has good instincts. That’s the part he doesn’t want to admit. 

Being right is great; being right is also scary.

Beside him, Nico stirs. Marti nearly hears all his joints pop with every unfolded limb. He grunts a little, too — an uncomfortable, uneasy sound. When he sits up, he exhales deep through his nose and holds his forehead.

“Where are we?” Nico asks it with a bubble in his throat.

Marti clears his own. “We just passed Genoa.” He risks his peripheral vision and notices Nico bring his other hand up to his forehead too, pushing all the hair back and closing his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Nico starts breathing heavy — Marti can almost hear the inhales churn in his stomach, out shaky and slow through the little _o_ he makes with his mouth. Nico rolls the window down and reaches blindly for the air control on the dashboard, missing as his fingers skim over the wrong knobs and giving up like he can’t concentrate. He doesn’t answer Marti.

“Woah woah woah,” Marti stumbles, panicked. Luckily they’re going slow enough it only takes him a second to pull over. “Nico?”

When the car comes to a halt, Nico flings the door open and stumbles out — retching almost immediately when he finds a tree to holds himself against.

Marti, frozen, shakes himself and frantically pats his hands around the middle console before grabbing the water as an afterthought, practically flying out of the car. “Nico? Ni?”

Nico weakly holds one of his arms up behind him, as if to stop Marti from coming any closer. He spits one last time and stands up straight, hand finding his forehead again. Eyes closed and brow wrinkled. He wipes his mouth with his forearm and winces.

Marti ignores his request for space and bolts toward him, letting Nico lean into his body once he’s close enough to take him back to the car. They go slow, Nico faltering his steps with fumbly legs. Marti has one arm around his back, supporting him with each short step. (He feels smaller than he looks, but Marti tries not to focus on that right now.)

He opens the rear door, and Nico slumps into the back seat. His face is pale and patchy and shiny with sweat, hair sticking wildly to the parts of his temple he didn’t brush it away from.

“Drink this,” Marti presses, gently placing the water bottle into Nico’s fragile grip. He crouches down to get level with him, one hand on the metal roof of the car.

Nico does, some of it dribbling down his chin. The muscles of his face are tired, almost enervated to the point he can’t speak. A few more forced sips and he’s holding it back out with a shaky hand for Marti to take again.

And when he does, Nico leans forward and rests his forehead on Marti’s middle where his chest meets his stomach. His breathing evens, the goosebumps on his arms and neck subside. Up this close, Marti realizes he even had them in the first place.

Automatically, without thinking, Marti’s hand comes off the car and pauses on the top of Nico’s head, combing sticky, tangled curls between his fingers.

He knows he’s fucked when he doesn’t even think it’s gross. When he can see a thick blue smear of dyed sick from the energy drink on his arm where he wiped his mouth. When he knows Nico’s about to leave a sweat stain on his shirt where he’s taking refuge. 

(He just hopes Nico can’t feel his stomach flip.)

Marti tenderly rakes his fingers through Nico’s hair a few more times, letting him calm down.

“It was the Nutella, wasn’t it?” 

Nico can’t see Marti’s face, but Marti knows his own smirk is palpable — conveyed clearly with the words. He’s good at deflecting.

“And the crackers, right?” He continues. “Especially together.”

Nico’s shoulders give a meager bump, suggesting a silent laugh. He leans back — away from Marti, whose hands leave his hair — and the loss feels bigger than Marti wanted it to. Like he just set something down only to turn around and pick it up again, but suddenly can’t find it.

“Just want to make it abundantly clear that those aren’t actually my favorite,” Nico croaks, covering his mouth with his hand and exhaling — maybe a yawn, or a burp. Too many words too soon, like his throat is saying _enough._ “Just wanted to see you try it.”

Marti wants to hold him. “Are you okay?” He appreciates Nico's attempt to lighten the mood but jokes aside, Nico still hasn’t answered him. 

Nico half-frowns, shrugs. “I just get really car sick on twisty roads. I’m sorry, I should have said something.”

“What? Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry, I probably could have been driving smoother or —”

Nico shushes him — a literal finger in front of his mouth. Marti has the weird urge to kiss it.

“Bound to happen,” he tries to laugh. “Listen, not to impose, but driving usually helps. At least through the rest of the mountains...” Nico pauses. “If that's okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Marti agrees — maybe too willingly. He’s already opening the passenger side door to sit. 

“I just need one more minute,” Nico admits, slouching back and holding his head again. He takes a few deep breaths and then reaches his hand out, clenching and unclenching his fingers. 

Marti gives him the water again, and Nico downs the rest in a final gulp — swishing it in his mouth before spitting it out on the gravel by the tire. Marti sees him swipe his tongue over his teeth under his lips, smacks them once. 

“You didn’t buy gum, did you? That blue thing did not taste great coming up.” He stands now — or tries to — he wobbles once and Marti stretches an arm out to steady him.

Nico feels warm. Solid. Which is obvious human anatomy, nothing special. But it still feels different under Marti’s fingers, makes the tips of them tingle.

He doesn’t dwell on it. Back on their feet, they part around the car to their respective sides.

Marti chuckles, then winces. He rifles through the plastic bag on the passenger side seat. “You’re out of luck. Literally all that’s left is this Nutella.”

Nico snorts. “Pass.” He says it in time with the closing of his door, dropping into the seat.

If anything, Marti appreciates his resiliency.

Back on the road, it’s silent for a while. Nico drives a certain way: leaned back, legs bent. One hand on the top of the steering wheel and one hand on the shift. He carefully maneuvers the car around the bends of the forest path, the clearings giving Marti a better glimpse of the ocean — almost green in the early evening light. He stares at it to avoid staring at Nico, although it’s a futile attempt. Maybe he compares the setting sun sparkling on the choppy, windy whitecaps to the flecks in his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t think they’re as bright. 

Maybe he’s fucked. 

It’s been a long time since he's felt this kind of comfort in the presence of, essentially, a stranger. Maybe in the presence of anyone.

He wants to ask. He wants to know. The urge to reshape that word: stranger — Marti doesn’t know why it’s so strong. The surface stuff — the junk food and the stupid pop song — it’s fun. Nico is fun. But Marti knows that’s not all he is. He wants to fill in the blanks. Or rather, he wants Nico to fill them in for him. 

But he can tell Nico is embarrassed. And not just for making him pull over to get sick. But for everything. His origin into Marti’s trip and his desperation and his giant backpack and the dirt under his nails. The way he needs Marti right now. These things about him are loud but unsaid. 

He’s quiet because of them. As if he can read Marti’s mind. Thinking about that dirt. 

Marti wonders if he’d be almost home by now had he not picked Nico up; still bored but maybe with a more settled stomach. (But it’s uncomfortable in an exciting way.)

Then he remembers the tire. And how he’d actually be farther behind. 

“Thank you, by the way,” Marti starts. “For earlier, with the tire. I’m a bit embarrassed, I should know how.” He makes sure to include that word to settle the playing field. 

Ahead of himself for the third time now, as if there’s a game being played.

Marti sees Nico smile. A weak one, like his face is tired. 

“Lots of people don’t know how. Especially if you don’t drive a lot.” He nods, pauses. “I work on, or, uh... used to work on cars with my dad, so. I’ve changed a million.”

Marti waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. 

And he can’t take the curiosity anymore. 

“Are you okay?” The rehearsed words leave Marti’s mouth easier than he expected. He sees Nico raise one eyebrow, focus still on the road. 

“Yeah, much better. Like I said, driving really helps with the motion sickness —“

“No, I mean, like—” Marti cuts him off with a soft voice. “Are _you_ okay?”

_Why were you on the side of the road? Why were you in France? Why are you trying to get back to Rome? Why didn’t you have any water, why do you have no money?_

Nico knows what he means. His nostrils flare. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. It’s not in anger, though. He’s guarded, maybe. His weak smile disappears before it returns again with a big exhale. Like just Marti asking took a weight off his shoulders. 

Maybe it’s his focus on the twists of the road that keep him from looking at Marti that help him say it. Easier to not sum up the courage to make eye contact. 

“I have Borderline Personality Disorder.”

Maybe it would hit Marti harder if he knew what that was. But the gravity in Nico’s voice doesn’t lessen the blow. Marti can feel it in his sinking chest. That this is big. That this is important. He can see it in Nico’s face, too — wide and open and soft like he just exposed a mortal weakness. His Achilles’ tendon. There’s fear in there, too, like Marti might ask him to pull over and get out. 

Which is the farthest thing from the truth, but with his lack of a response he doesn’t want that doubt to grow. 

Marti places his hand over Nico’s on the stick shift. Squeezes it. 

Nico exhales slowly through his nose, and Marti feels the skin under his palm almost melt in relief. He lets go. 

“And in an…” Nico starts again, voice wavering, “... _impulsive_ state about a week and a half ago, I bought a one-way ticket to Paris. Where I proceeded to spend all of my money. I’ve got less than a euro left to my name.”

Marti stays silent, hopes his eyes on Nico are enough of a prompt.

“I didn’t want to scare anyone, especially my parents — who I barely managed to convince I was fine in the first place once I got there. But I wasn’t, you know, _thinking_ about the money at the time. I was just spending it. And drinking and going out all night. And then my card kept getting declined, they kicked me out of the apartment I was renting… yeah. So I tried to get back on my own, but it just turned into another thing I didn’t think through.”

His face is pinched like he would close his eyes if he could to hide himself.

It’s a lot to take in — he doesn’t even understand it fully — but Marti isn’t scared. 

He puts his hand back on Nico’s and he sees his eyes flit over to it, sees his face ease, his lips turn up. No tightness, no restraint, no hesitation. And that’s how Marti knows it’s okay, so he keeps it there.

Nico turns his own over so their palms touch, moves them down off the shift stick to rest on the center console. Intertwining their fingers as if to imply it’s intentional, like he doesn’t want Marti to think he’s moving away.

They’re holding hands. Marti just stares at their crossed pinkies before his heart beats so forcibly he feels it in his brain, almost giving him a headache.

“You really did save me back there.” Nico whispers it. “I was close to giving up.”

Marti’s not sure what that means, but the worrier in him pictures the worst. He squeezes Nico’s hand and surreptitiously presses the pads of their thumbs together in the hopes he can feel Nico’s heartbeat. Something jittery. But maybe it’s just his own.

Marti leans his head back, turning it to face Nico. He closes his eyes. But first he takes him in: his sharp profile, that faint smile. The outsides match the inside in a way Marti only realizes now; only Nico could look beautiful evening out from a low place because only Nico could be so smart and wild and sincere. There are not many people like that. Marti feels his palm get sweaty but doesn’t dare think to protect his pride. He keeps it in place, unmoving.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

  
  


• • •

  
  


“Marti.”

It’s dark out. Nico’s hand is rubbing his shoulder. They’re not moving.

“Marti, I’m sorry. Are you awake?”

Marti’s eyes — just slivered open — fall closed again. He grunts a sleepy sound that indicates yes. At least now, anyway. The last thing he remembers is Nico’s hand in his. His fingers clench as if to find their matches, but his palm is empty. 

When Nico’s grip leaves his shoulder, Marti gives a compulsory slump forward like his body is asking for that contact again. Following the touch. He’s too tired to care about what that probably looked like, but feels his face get hot anyway. Hopefully, Nico can’t tell in the dark.

“I think we’re close but I’m not sure. We’re not… lost…?” Nico mumbles, inflecting.

Marti can hear him scratch the back of his head.

“But it’s dark and I’m getting tired again, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fall asleep and crash and kill us both.” He chuckles, tense and apologetic.

Marti hums, hides a yawn in the crook of his elbow. His eyes peel open and everything is blurry. Nico is just a dark silhouette against the window. 

“We can stay pulled over and sleep a bit,” he agrees, sinking further down into the seat. His vision adjusts to the blackness — Nico becomes clearer. Marti can see the sharp outline of curls, the whites of his eyes and teeth. He’s rubbing something on his face, maybe his nose or his lip. “These dumb chairs don’t adjust. You can lay down in the back if you want.”

“No, no,” Nico starts, waving his hands in front of his chest. “It’s your car. You can take the back.”

It’s cute. Marti just watches him insist for a moment with a smile he knows is borderline dopey. He licks his bottom lip and regrets it; he’s much less guarded half-asleep, which makes him practically defenseless against his horrible poker face.

“Really,” Marti presses. “I don’t want to move. You might as well just take it.”

Nico purses his lips in a conceded half smile, his shoulders falling with a huff. “Thank you,” he says genuinely.

Marti closes his eyes again, saves his smirk for when he hears the door next to him close and the door behind him open.

Nico’s weight settles in, and after a few shuffles everything is back to dark and quiet.

Of course now Marti no longer feels tired. 

He’d offer to drive again — maybe they could even make it back to Rome before the day turns — but something stops him.

Stars. Through the sunroof on the ceiling. It’s been so long since Marti’s left Rome he can’t remember seeing this many in one place. The light pollution back home almost blacks them all out.

He tries to remember the constellations. Maybe he sees Hercules, or maybe that’s Lyra. His eyes dart between the four stars in their trapezoid, trying to find the neck or the arm to make sense of it.

“Do you see Draco?”

Ah, so it was neither. Marti hears Nico’s soft, low voice from the back seat.

“I think I found him…” Nico lifts his arm, points — as if that’s any help. Marti’s eyes follow it anyway, his wrist right by his ear. “There’s his tail.” Nico curves his finger in an elegant squiggle, leaving his hand still for a moment before pulling it down.

Marti wishes he grabbed it; misses it in his own.

Maybe Nico does too, because the silence now is almost disappointing.

“Your freckles match.” 

Somehow, Nico manages to say it even softer and lower than before.

Marti snorts. “What?” But his insides flare so hotly they almost boil.

“The constellation. It’s in the same pattern as the freckles on the back of your neck.”

Marti knows it’s an exaggeration, can’t possibly be true. But that makes the weight of it heavier, somehow. Because it’s not a fact — just a thing to fill that disappointing silence. Nico wanted to say it, if not only to make Marti smile.

And he is. So wide he’s glad Nico can’t see him. His own hand comes up to find the skin of his throat, fingers trailing slowly back almost to see if he can locate the freckles himself. He only feels goosebumps.

“Stupid,” is all Marti manages to say. But the way he says it surely makes known the size of his smile. But somehow, he wanted Nico to know. “Goodnight, Nico.”

He wonders if Nico is smiling, too.

“Goodnight, Marti.”

Yeah. He is.

  
  


• • •

  
  


It’s a moan that jolts Marti awake — so loud he bolts upright with his head almost hitting the ceiling. The glaring sun in his eyes stuns him before he can fully transition into consciousness.

Upon further inspection, it’s a _moo._

A fluffy brown eye is staring at him through the window, long eyelashes and a mouth smacking grass. The cow outside turns its head to lick the pane, leaving a slimy streak on the glass.

Marti squints his eyes through the sunshine to see a whole field of them to his right. They must have parked next to a farm.

Nico just laughs at him from the back seat.

Marti turns around to see him there — head on his own arm, curls everywhere. Eyes just slivers and a smile so bright maybe that’s why he has to keep squinting. 

His heart spins, and he’s almost annoyed by how cute Nico looks half-awake.

It makes him self-conscious of how he looks now, too. Marti turns around to rub his eyes and comb his fingers through his hair. He might hear Nico laugh again, this time stifling it.

Sleeping with his neck bent up has given Marti a slight headache he knows only caffeine can fix. If Nico is anything like him, he’ll be thinking the same thing.

“Should we go find some coffee?” Marti offers, pushing the passenger side door open to switch sides, rounding the front of the car and sinking down into the driver’s side. He looks back at Nico, who is just starting to sit up.

He nods, smiles. Unfolds all his limbs and stretches outside before joining Marti in the front of the car. 

Marti tries not to watch and finds himself spiraling when it isn’t Nico’s skin or muscles that drive him crazy, but the little rolls of his wrists, his ankles. His dipped chin and the way he scratches his nose after he yawns.

After a pitstop to the nearest bar for a double espresso (and some directions, because okay maybe Nico _did_ get them a little lost) where the barista may or may not have given their disheveled selves a judging once-over, they learn they’re only about thirty minutes away from the main road to take them back into Rome.

And she might have been exaggerating the distance, because back in the car, before Marti knows it, things are starting to look familiar and Nico is giving him directions back to his parent’s house.

It makes his throat tight. He misses one of the turns Nico points out because his brain is somewhere else entirely: do they exchange numbers? Instagrams? Nothing? Is this even anything at all, or are they doomed to wander the same city with nothing more than a silly “one time I was hitchhiking/one time I picked up a hitchhiker” story? Where Marti will undoubtedly leave out the part about fingers carding through hair, holding hands, the freckles. And especially the part where maybe if the story didn’t end, they’d be in love by now.

It’s the middle of the morning rush hour, and Rome’s city center is crowded with traffic. 

“Right here.” Nico points to his right.

Marti isn’t prepared to arrive yet. He pulls over the best he can, still blocking the road with a line of cars behind him. One of them honks before Nico’s even pulled his backpack up from the back. It rests between them on the center console like a barricade.

Marti looks down at it. Then up at Nico, where he catches his eyes for a second before they trade places. Like a dance of glances.

“Thanks, Marti.”

It’s probably the millionth time Nico’s thanked him, and Marti doesn’t know how to tell him he doesn’t need to without it sounding like an automatic response. Except he means it.

He just waves his hand and tilts his head. “Thanks for helping with the tire, and —”

“No.” Nico looks down, serious. He’s chewing his bottom lip like he’s chewing the words. “No, really. Thank you. I’m not sure if I would have made it without you.” He looks back up.

With eyes sparkling, but this time because they’re a little watery.

Marti has no idea what happens next, can’t even form a thought when Nico looks at him like this. All around him, with eyes tracing over the details of his face like he’s trying to memorize it. They way Marti would have been looking at him if he didn’t have to look at the road.

But even though he has no idea, he would have never predicted this: too quick for Marti to process, Nico leans in — one hand coming up to hold his face, fingertips digging into the back of his neck where those freckles are — and kisses him.

Stupidly, Marti’s first thought is Nico’s backpack between them and how he wishes it would disappear. Because the kiss is short enough to give Nico leverage but not long enough to transition the thought and enjoy it.

He didn’t have time to, and he knows his face says that when Nico pulls away: open, stunned. And worst of all, he knows Nico will misread it.

And he does. Hand still on Marti’s face, eyes back to fluttering over every freckle like he knows it’s the last time. With a disappointed nod, Nico removes his grip finger by finger. 

Marti realizes Nico’s other hand was on the strap of his backpack. Because he pulls it out quickly behind him as he ducks out of the car. A quick getaway device like he planned for things to go wrong anyway but was brave enough to take a chance.

Only now does Marti realize his ears are ringing. The chorus of car horns bring him back after he watches Nico dart into the building. He listens to them for longer than he should, frozen in his seat with his hand on the stick to pull back out into traffic.

He puts it in park instead.

The honks are accompanied by yells when Marti flings the door open and almost trips out into a parked motorcycle. He doesn’t hear what they say, though, because the sound of his feet hitting the cobblestones in a sprint and the sound of his heart in overdrive make everything muddled. 

He rushes into the building. Inside there’s a security guard that he ignores. The elevator in the lobby has an out of order sign. There are two sets of staircases. 

Marti picks the closest one and prays that it’s right, legs burning as he takes the steps two by two without looking at his feet because he’s looking up at the square spiral of stairs, hoping to hear him, see him.

“Nico?” He hears his own voice echo through the landings. “Ni?”

Two floors up, Marti sees a cute, curly head pop over the banister. Even from far away, Marti notices his face light up in a smile.

“Nico.” He says it quiet this time, to himself. 

Marti dashes up the last of the steps, out of breath, wasting no time. Nico looks pleasantly surprised to see him, but Marti hardly catches the expression because he pulls him in immediately. Crashing like a wave.

Both hands on his face. Nose smushing into his cheek. Marti kisses him.

Different from last time, and for longer, too. He can feel Nico smile against his lips. He’d even dare to say he can feel Nico melt after a moment of realization. Marti doesn’t let go until he needs to breathe. And even then it’s just to catch it — which he barely does because Nico giggles, Marti can feel it more than he can hear it. That makes him laugh, too — and then he kisses Nico again, senses Nico's smile widen to the point his lips can barely pucker (which might even be better than seeing it). Marti feels him drop his backpack with a thud and put his arms up around his shoulders, pulling him in.

Ears ringing again. Or maybe his heart swelled so big up his throat it buffers his eardrums.

Either way, the honking outside is persistent. Nico notices it before Marti does.

“Did you leave the car in the middle of the street?” He mumbles it over their kiss before pulling away with a look so devastating Marti only just remembers.

But he doesn’t really care. “Yeah.” Kisses Nico again, who laughs into his mouth.

“They’re going to get out soon and break the windows if you don’t move it.”

“Worth it.” Marti wishes he would stop pulling away.

But Nico makes a fair point. “Then how will you pick me up for dinner tonight at nine?”

Marti snorts. “Where are we going?”

“The roof.” Nico tips his chin up. “I make a very good carbonara. Let me impress you. I clean up nice, I swear.”

Marti leans in again, can’t get enough. He’ll talk over kisses if he has to. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“So you’ll come back?”

As if Marti needs to think about it. He thought he already did. 

“Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


End file.
